Blurring the Lines Between Fact & Fiction: Lessons from ‘The Watermelon Woman’

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LUMICORE V1.2 — FINAL CANON PROMPT “Counter, Late Afternoon” (Locked, Policy-Safe) A horizontal, close-up photographic image of a cluttered video store checkout counter in the late 1990s, rendered in grounded cinematic realism with an archival sensibility. The faux-wood laminate counter surface is visibly scratched, nicked, and dulled from years of use. Its edges show uneven wear where customers have leaned or slid tapes across. The surface is crowded with VHS tapes in cardboard and plastic slipcases, loosely stacked and overlapping, arranged by habit rather than intention. The VHS covers feature fictional or unreadable feminist-themed designs from the era: bold colors, abstract imagery, protest photography fragments, handwritten-style typography, and partially obscured figures. No titles are fully legible. Edges are softened, spines faded, and glossy plastic reflects overhead light, further obscuring text. Feminist identity emerges through accumulation, color language, and wear rather than readable words. Lighting comes from overhead fluorescent fixtures typical of small retail spaces. The light is warm-leaning and uneven, creating gentle reflections on plastic covers and faint glare at shallow angles. Shadows fall softly beneath stacked tapes and objects. Behind the counter sits a bulky off-white cash register with large tactile buttons, its casing slightly yellowed with age. A small green LED display glows steadily. Nearby, a handwritten “Be Kind, Rewind” note curls at the corners, taped casually, the ink slightly faded. In the background, rows of VHS cases line shelves beneath blocky store signage, softly out of focus due to shallow depth of field. The framing is casual and observational, slightly off-center. The image carries the visual characteristics of late-1990s consumer photography: modest film grain, gentle softness at the edges, mild vignetting, and subtle bloom on glossy surfaces caused by fluorescent lighting. These qualities emerge naturally, not as effects. The overall tone is quietly archival, affectionate toward physical media and everyday feminist culture without editorial emphasis.

The Watermelon Woman (1996) is one of those exceptional films from Cheryl Dunye that reach beyond time. Often, it is one of those films where, long after the credits go by, one seems to remain haunted by the story. It is outrightly witty, yet deeply personal, and falls into the gray zone where it cannot be categorized-a Queer Historical Mockumentary Dramedy, perhaps? Yet none of these categories seems to define this very special mode of storytelling. Perhaps this whole film revolves around the themes of storytelling, history, and which voices we choose to amplify in our everyday lives.

The first time I watched it, I found myself completely swept up in the story of Fae Richards, a Black actress from the early 20th century. Dunye, both the filmmaker and the protagonist, pieces together Fae’s life through old photographs, interviews, and archival material. It’s the kind of narrative that feels so vivid, so heartbreakingly real, that I couldn’t help but Google Fae Richards afterward—only to discover she didn’t exist. And yet, she felt more real than so many historical figures I’d learned about growing up.

That’s the brilliance of Dunye’s approach. She doesn’t just blur the line between fact and fiction; she transforms it into something far more profound. For marginalized communities, especially Black and queer people, history often comes with glaring gaps. Those gaps aren’t incidental—they’re the product of deliberate erasure, a systemic effort to push certain lives and stories to the margins. What Dunye does in The Watermelon Woman is revolutionary: she fills those gaps not with dry, clinical facts, but with a story so vivid and emotionally resonant that it feels truer than truth.

Here’s a clip from the film where Cheryl Dunye introduces herself and Fae Richards. It perfectly captures the authenticity and vision that make this film unforgettable:

At first, I didn’t even realize Fae Richards was fictional. The archive photos, the detailed anecdotes—everything felt so authentic. But that’s the brilliance of Dunye’s approach. She shows us that history isn’t just about what’s documented; it’s about who gets to tell the story and what they choose to include. By creating Fae, Dunye reminds us that sometimes, fiction can be the best way to capture the emotional truth of a life that history forgot.

Watching the film also made me think about the stories in my own life that have been overlooked or erased. What moments, what people, might slip through the cracks if no one takes the time to remember them? And how do we begin to reclaim those stories when the trail of evidence is faint or nonexistent?

One answer lies in creativity. Dunye didn’t wait for some long-lost document to validate Fae’s existence; she built her herself. It’s a radical act of imagination, but also one of love. It says, “You were here. You mattered.” Maybe we can all take a page from that playbook, whether it’s documenting our family’s oral history, writing stories inspired by people we’ve lost, or even creating art that honors the kinds of lives we wish had been remembered.

The Watermelon Woman is a reminder that history isn’t just about facts; it’s about power. Who gets to decide what’s remembered and what’s forgotten? And more importantly, what can we do to rewrite those decisions in ways that feel more just?

Cheryl Dunye shows us that we don’t have to wait for permission to tell the stories that matter to us. Sometimes, creating a fictional history can be the most powerful way to tell the truth.